The Act of Staying Alive
by Dracoisalooker76
Summary: Haymitch's journey between the 50th and 74th Games. For the Spring Fling Fic Exchange.


This was my prompt for the Spring Fling Fic Exchange over on Archive of our Own for the lovely ArabellaGwen. Better late than never getting it transferred over here I suppose.

Hope you enjoy!

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**The Act of Staying Alive**

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**50.**

I hate June. I mean, the eleven other months aren't a walk in the park, but June is the worst. June brings bugs and summer sicknesses. June brings scorching heat that leaves us panting like dogs. June brings nightmares. June brings July.

July brings the Hunger Games.

Shamus shakes in the bed beside our mother. It's his first year and even in his dreams he shakes with uncontrollable tremors. He must have snuck out early in the night, while I was still sleeping, because the spot in the bed next to me is cool, lacking any of the body heat he provided. I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead. It's boiling even before dawn. It's going to be a hot reaping. My _favorite_.

I realize that there's no use trying to sleep anymore. Instead, I throw the threadbare sheet off my body and dress. I'm out the door without a sound.

It's still early for Peacekeepers, especially on the day of the reaping, but it's still best to be careful. I walk along the fence, keeping an ear open as I approach. It's still off, but it won't be for long. Our trip needs to be short today. We need to be back in the Seam shortly after daybreak.

Hunter is curled up on a rock at our meeting spot when I arrive so I kick his leg and he shutters awake, looking around for a Peacekeeper. When he sees that it's only me, he grunts.

"Get up," I say. "I'm not getting stuck on this side of the fence for Shamus's first reaping."

He stands and throws his bow over his shoulder. "How is he?"

"Fucking wonderful."

"Haymitch," Hunter hisses. "Not today."

I reach into the tree trunk and grab my knife before we set off to see what we can find in the dark morning light. Not much. I launch a knife at a rabbit. He nocks an arrow and takes down a fox, then a couple squirrels. The snare line that isn't ours has caught a few more things than we have and I remind myself that we need to learn how to do that. But not now.

As we're walking back along the fence's edge toward the Seam, the buzz of the fence electrifying catches my ears. Ten more minutes and we would've been stuck.

"Lucky," Hunter says.

"Don't jinx it."

The atmosphere of the Seam, the whole district really, is so different on a reaping day. Everyone moves slower until we're rushing at the last minute to arrive at the square on time. Heads are cast down to the ground. People don't look anyone within reaping age in the eye because in a few hours they could be gone. Everything is tense.

My mother is moving around the kitchen when I open the door with the rabbit and one of Hunter's squirrels. Shamus, still in his pajamas, which are nothing more than clothes that are too small and hollow for me to wear in public anymore, sits at the table with his head resting on his palms.

"Hey." He turns to look at me and I ruffle his hair. "Don't worry about it."

"What if it's me?" he whispers.

I don't say anything because no one knows what's going to happen this year. It is a Quarter Quell after all. Instead, I kiss the top of his head and lift him out of the chair. "Go get dressed," I say. "Breakfast will be done when you're finished."

He hops off the chair and into the bedroom while I walk toward our mother. She reaches for the animals, but sniffs at my dirty clothes. "I wish you wouldn't go," she says. She hates that I hunt.

"How else are we gonna eat?" I hiss, just quiet enough that Shamus won't hear us.

"I just." She lets out a breath. "I don't like you and Hunter running around in the woods, especially today. It's not safe."

"Yeah, well, we live in a district where we can starve to death in _safety_."

She gives me a look. "That's enough, Haymitch," she states. "I won't have you talking like that in my house for your brother to hear and repeat. Wash up."

I turn away and see Shamus duck his head behind the door, trying to pretend that he wasn't listening. The rest of the morning follows suit. We dress. We wash. But the coal dust sticks under our fingernails and our clothes hang off our bodies. Shamus, despite my illegal activities, is small and my old reaping clothes don't quite fit. He has to cuff the bottoms of his pants and roll the waist. He holds his head high though, like I've taught him to do.

Once we're separated, I look for Hunter. He's standing with Hana and Hazelle, so I wander over, my hands stuffed in my pockets. Hunter's pants are ripped at the knee and I roll my eyes when I wander over. If there's anyone more willing to defy the Capitol on a regular basis without even realizing it, it's Hunter Everdeen.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I hiss.

"That's what I said," Hazelle says, shaking her head. "I could've fixed it."

"It's fine. If I go, I'll get a fancy new pair."

Hana clenches her teeth and I pull her aside, bringing her into my arms. "It's going to be okay," I say, pressing my lips to her temple. "We're going to be fine."

"Four people are going," she whispers. "It could be any of us or all of us."

I'm going to marry Hana one day. That's what I tell myself as the names begin to be drawn. We will be safe. Hunter and Hazelle, too. Shamus. The first called is a little girl from the Seam that I've seen around but don't know well. The next is a shocker – one of the Town girls. They never get chosen and I can't help but raise an eyebrow. There are even a few gasps. Then the escort calls for the boys. The first is Seam through and through – fourteen, gangly, tall as a house.

The second is me.

To be honest, everything that happens after that multi-colored escort says my name is more or less a blur. Shamus is crying in the front fucking row and I give him a look. _Suck it up, kiddo. Don't cry for me._ It doesn't work and he just buries his head in his hands. Hunter looks like he's about ready to throw up the little meat he probably ate today and if he does that I'm going to have to slap him silly when he comes to see me. He has to take care of my brother until I can get back to this godforsaken district. I can't even look at Hana. I don't want to. The Capitol will find a way to use her against me.

I have too many disadvantages – our mentor died years ago, I'm from the laughing stock district, everything else about my life – to give them one more.

**51.**

It takes two weeks for someone to adequately and completely destroy your life.

It takes a year for you to even realize everything is real.

And it takes less than three seconds, the amount of time it takes for your stupid fucking escort to say, "Auburn Kinsey," – your first tribute – before you spiral down again.

**52.**

I stumble upon alcohol accidentally.

When I return from the Fifty-First games with two white Capitol coffins, I lock myself in my house. There's really nothing left for me to do and maybe if I just sit here and wallow I'll end up dying, rotting, in this house that's too big and too far away from the district to really be considered part of Twelve.

I don't sleep and when I do it doesn't last more than an hour before I see Maysilee clawing at her neck because she can't breath through the blood pooling in her throat. When it's not Maysilee it's Shamus who went up in flames while I was forced to sit at a party at the mayor's house. Sometimes, I don't even have to close my eyes to see the house, nothing but ashes.

In my head I walk through the district and see it, demolished, and feel the stares. They're not sympathetic either. Everyone in the Seam stares, hisses, talks about how it's all my fault. And it is. It is all my fault. It's my fault that Maysilee's dead because I was too stubborn to stay with her, to possibly have to sacrifice my life to send her home if we ended up in the final two (because I never would've done that). It's my fault that Shamus and my mother are dead. Snow warned me at my crowning.

"_That stunt with the force field. Very clever, Mr. Abernathy. Is your brother as clever as you?"_

I didn't get it.

And Hana. _Hana_. If I could turn back time I would make Hunter grab her before she ran to me, before she hugged me, kissed me, and outed herself as someone important to me. Hell, if I could turn back time, I'd keep my name in the fucking bowl because there is nothing worse than this.

"_You can hunt. It isn't any different than that, right?_"

Hunter, if you only knew how fucking wrong that statement is.

I have too much money for my own good and I have nothing to do with it. I'm basically sitting on money, the one thing I've wanted my entire life – the ability to provide. Now, I don't have anyone to provide for and all the supplies in the world. The _irony_.

A rock hits my window and I turn. Another hits and I stand to see what's going on. Hunter stands under the window, looking up at me with a scowl, so I open it.

"Go away."

"Haymitch!" he shouts. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

I glare. He has no idea what I'm dealing with. Perfect Hunter Fucking Everdeen. "I said go away."

"No," he states, crossing his arms over his chest. "This isn't healthy. Come outside, get some sunshine."

"Aren't you worried about tomorrow?" I demand. It's his last reaping. I'm terrified. Snow's probably watching right now and is rigging the bowl so I have to mentor him.

Hunter shrugs. "If I get reaped, I have you as a mentor. Be like old times."

Before I even think, I grab a vase – a really fucking ugly one – and chuck it out the window. He dodges it. "Fuck you," I hiss. "Get lost before you end up dead."

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "It's not your fault, you know. I know you're blaming yourself but how were you supposed to know that Snow would – "

"Would you shut up?" I exclaim. "Who do you think you are, saying that inside the fence?"

"I'm your friend," he says. "I'm your best friend."

I'm shaking and grab the next closest thing to me, which happens to be a book that's collecting dust, and throw it at him. He dodges again. He needs to leave. I don't have any more friends – I can't. They'll all end up like Shamus and Ma and Hana. Why can't he be more like Hazelle? She hasn't talked to me since Hana was found _sleeping_ in the meadow. Can't say I blame her. I wouldn't talk to me either.

"Hunter, just go." He doesn't, so I do the only thing I can do. I tell him the truth. "I'd rather die in the mines that go through this."

Dying in the mines is the worst way to go in the district. It implies that you get locked in some machine, maybe have a couple limbs pulled, or get trapped when a tunnel collapses. You could get black lung like Hunter's father. Or, Peacekeepers could whip you for not being on time when your wife's in labor and your toddler has a fever like mine. But none of that is as bad as being trapped and waiting to die.

He sobers almost instantly, stares at me long and hard, before shaking his head and turning away. And that's it. The one person whose been trying to get me to live again for the last two years finally gave up. I walk through my house, knocking over chairs and tables, smashing dishes and opening cabinets. That's where I find it.

It's fancy stuff and I don't really know what it is when I first find it. Even the Hob doesn't really sell alcohol – no one in our district would be caught dead drinking it. If a Peacekeeper caught you with even a breath that smelled of liquor they'd hang you in the square for everyone to see.

But I'm a victor.

There's no one left that I love.

More importantly, there's no one left that loves me.

**53.**

"Boy, you're gonna rot that liver o' yours."

I have not been sober since the day before Hunter's last reaping, when he left me in my big house. I like it better this way. I even learned that when I'm drunk, seeing the kids die isn't nearly so bad. It helps me not to care. Sometimes, I can't even remember it in the morning.

Chaff grabs the bottle out of my hand. I try to put up a fight, but I'm already too far gone. He tips my bottle to his lips and smirks. "But, that ain't necessarily a bad way to go."

**54.**

My name is Haymitch Abernathy. I am twenty years old. I live in District Twelve. I won the Fiftieth Hunger Games. And, no matter what I do, my tributes always seem to die.

**55.**

"Maysilee, wait, I'll come with you."

She turns and smiles. "I thought we decided it'd be better to split ways now."

I shrug my shoulders. "We're allies and there's still a game to play."

We walk slowly through the terrain and in the distance I see the birds. I lead Maysilee in the other direction and a big fat grin spreads over my face. I just saved her life and she doesn't even realize it.

She dies with an axe to the chest.

**56.**

Chaff's girl wins this year. She's tall and rugged and Seeder cries when the girl's crowned. I don't know her name. I don't care to know her name. All I know is my two kids are already dead, have been for days, and are currently being loaded for transport back to District Twelve where they will be delivered to their families and buried in the tribute cemetery, which is little more than a row of dug-up dirt along the fence behind the mayor's house.

I slip out of the room before Chaff can come up to me. I hate that he won. I want one of mine to win, just once. Maybe twice. I just, I hate that they always die. I hate everything. I was drunk, yes, but I even got sponsors for them. I did my job! Why didn't they live?

As I make my way to the train, I can see that the coffins are being loaded. What they don't tell you when you win is that you will remember every name, even if you're so drunk you forget everything else.

You remember Auburn Kinsey, the tiny thirteen-year-old from the Seam who was beheaded and was, more importantly, your first dead tribute. You remember each and every one. And they haunt you too.

And I know that Senna Hawthorne and Meade Winze will star in my nightmares tonight.

**57.**

I quit. I can't do this anymore.

The little girl who walks on stage just turned twelve and no one but the wind will volunteer for her. So I'm going to watch her die.

**58.**

I splash water on my face and take a deep breath. I've been at this for seven years now and it hasn't gotten any easier. In fact, it might have even gotten worse because now, as I sit on that stage in the heat of summer, I look out at the crowd of adults who are forced to watch. I don't really know any of the potential tributes anymore. They're all too young. Shamus would've known, probably, but not me. Everyone I once knew, a long time ago before I sold my soul to the devil, are standing in the crowd of watchers.

And they have kids.

I hit my head against the sink as I kneel down. I'm completely hung over; my supply ran out last night. How are they so stupid? Suddenly they're nineteen, twenty, twenty-six and out of the reaping and they forget that the reaping even happens. They're just so happy with their little fucking families to even realize what the hell it's doing to me.

The Donner crew seems to have forgotten that they lost their sister – even her twin who lost her mind the year she died has one. Her brother just doesn't stop – he's on his third now. The baker's kids are loud and obnoxious and _smiley_ every time I walk in the store, as if I'm not seen as the grim reaper in the flesh. He just had one too in March. Hazelle's boy is two and he looks just like his aunt who still plagues me in the night, sleeping in her little white coffin and asking why I didn't save her.

And, of course, Hunter had to breed with Maysilee's best friend. Just fan-fucking-tastic.

**59.**

Ripper always gives me the good stuff, the kind used to clean floors and you can feel burning the lining of your throat. Is it bad that I'm glad she lost her arm and is forced to sell moonshine in the Hob for a living? Probably. But I just don't care anymore.

Alcohol doesn't even help me. Not really. It just traps me. I get stuck in my dreams. I lose my head. I think about Maysilee and Shamus and Hana and Auburn. I think about Hunter's little girl and the baker's boys and the Undersee baby. And I wonder who is going next year. Who am I going to take with me? Who am I going to kill this year?

**60.**

Ten years. I'll drink to that.

**61.**

Eleven years? I'll drink to that too.

**62.**

Both my tributes die in the bloodbath. I drown my sorrows in a bottle of white liquor. Chaff has to carry me back to my suite. When I wake up, I don't feel anything. Not sick. Not depressed. Not lost.

I just feel numb.

**63.**

"Haymitch?"

"What is it, Shamus?"

He just grins and shrugs. Then he bursts into flames. When I open my eyes I'm not in my room at home. I'm sitting in the monitor room. Chaff is snoring next to me.

And both my tributes are dead.

**64.**

Sometimes, if I'm in a particularly masochistic mood, I don't have nightmares. I dream. I dream about what my life would be like if my name wasn't drawn. Maybe Maysilee would've won. Doubtful, but a nice thought. I'd be married to Hana. Shamus would be all grown up. My mother would still be coddling us and any children we happened to have. Maybe my child would be friends with Hunter's daughter. Hazelle has a kid or two now. Hana and Hazelle were friends long before Hunter or I were in the picture and I'm sure my kid would be friends with one of her brood. They'd all be dark-haired and olive skinned, with these big gray eyes. We'd think that we were on top of the world, that our worlds couldn't be ripped apart by one of their names on a slip of paper. These dreams often have me waking up with a smile.

The reality is that I'm living the nightmare.

**65.**

Finnick Odair, the youngest victor in the history of the Games, looks like a small and helpless fool. On camera, he looked tough and fierce, but when he sits on stage for the interview, across from Caesar, he's shaking. He's terrified. And I remember it all too clearly. The feeling of watching the Games, of seeing your hands dirty. They never clean, not completely.

I'm almost tempted to pass him a shot. But that doesn't even help me.

**66.**

This is the year.

My boy is strong and tall. He's Seam. He's eighteen. He's determined. He's going to win. My girl will make it far too. She's lithe and quick. She's good at reading people. This is the year.

I don't even drink. I shake with withdrawals, but I put in effort. I get them food. I instruct them on what to do. They can do it. Maybe I'll even get final two.

Finnick, fifteen now, walks through the hallway passed me with his head down. He's in a silky robe and nothing else, his bronze hair all mussed, his green eyes dark and haunted. It doesn't occur to me in that moment, not until Chaff tells me later, what they're doing to him.

For the briefest of moments, I thank fate that I was only average in looks.

When I look back at the screen, I see my kids huddled by a small fire. It's a terrible idea and I should send them a sign to put it out. The Careers will be on them in no time. But I can't seem to do it. I keep looking over at Finnick. Is living through the Games really worth it?

"Your kids are dead," Chaff says when he finds me in the bar that night. "You see?"

I shake my head and bring my glass to my lips.

This is the year I stop caring.

**67.**

I wake up to blinding lights and a prick in my elbow. When I fully open my eyes, I can see I'm in the hospital and it reminds me of waking up after the Games. My heart races. My mind explodes. Where am I? Is there anyone there?

My escort opens the door to the room, just as she had when I was sixteen, and I'm prepared to grab the first blunt object I can find. What if they want to kill me after the stunt I pulled? I need to get home.

"Well, I almost had to bring three bodies back to District Twelve," she squeals. She almost sounds disappointed – probably because it would have been an interesting story. I bet none of her little escort friends have had the mentor die on them before.

Usually I do everything I can to make her life a living hell, but for the first time in my life I wish I had done what she wanted.

**68.**

Effie Fucking Trinket.

And I thought the last escort was anal. Effie Fucking Trinket is the new bane of my existence. She dumped my entire collection of liquor down the drain. Down the fucking drain!

"You are a mentor!"

Yes, because I _didn't _already know that. Tell it to the thirty-six dead tributes I've _mentored_ right into the ground.

"You know what?" I shout. "The only reason you want me to be sober is so you can move up to one of the fancy districts!"

Effie Fucking Trinket blinks once and then turns on her fancy pink heels. I don't see her again until morning. It might be the best thing that's ever happened to me on this train.

**69.**

I start caring again at the mine accident. I don't want to, but my mind won't shut off.

**70.**

I have a panic attack when I see Hunter's daughter in the front fucking row. I flash back to Shamus – bawling his eyes out at my reaping. I'm convinced she's coming with me, maybe not this year, but sometime soon.

She doesn't, though, and I'm glad. Because there is no way a kid from Twelve could survive the dam break.

**71.**

"Do you love me?"

I turn to Hana. "What kind of question is that?" I laugh. "Of course I do."

Hana glares at me. Her gray Seam eyes light up like fire in moonlight, bouncing color like the lake beyond the fence. "Then why am I dead?" she hisses.

When I wake, I'm drenched in sweat and covered in my own vomit. My head pounds as the light shines in through the window. I reach over and grab the flask off my bedside table and take a swig.

Today is the reaping, but more importantly, it would have been Hana's thirty-seventh birthday.

**72.**

The girl, Lark Overstreet, was friends with Hunter's daughter. For being a cranky old drunk – as those in the district like to say not so quietly whenever I'm passing by – I know a lot more than anyone would guess. I know that they used to be friends before the accident when the girl's personality basically went AWOL. I'm not sure Hunter's daughter has any friends anymore, except that lumbering Hawthorne kid I see her with occasionally.

I try my absolute hardest to get Lark Overstreet home. She's fourteen, which I know is a stretch but Finnick won when he was fourteen. But Finnick had a talent. Like every other goddamn kid that comes out of District Twelve, our only fucking talent is being able to hide if we make it out of the bloodbath.

She does well. She places ninth.

But ninth still means you're dead.

**73.**

The girl who gets reaped is named Arrow. Arrow. I wonder if this is Snow's warning or just a lucky coincidence? I bet it's a warning. He's already taken away everyone I loved. Might as well reap Hunter's daughter, right? I know it's going to happen. Next year, she's coming on the train with me. I look out into the group of fifteen-year-old girls and shake my head.

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_There's Haymitch's journey from the 50 to the 74th Hunger Games. For those of you following my other fics, I hope to update soon. _

_Hope you enjoyed!_


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